


Picking Up the Pieces

by McKinney_Wylis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Friendship, Gen, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKinney_Wylis/pseuds/McKinney_Wylis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious text message, in a cadence both familiar and frightening. Has John got a stalker, or a ghost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**BBC Sherlock: Picking Up the Pieces**

T.D. McKinney & Terry Wylis

 

**ONE**

(number withheld)

DINNER?

John Watson stared at the text message on his phone. It wasn’t Lestrade; Greg always signed his texts. It wasn’t Harry; she hadn’t seen the light out of the bottle for nearly a year. So who the hell could be anonymously inviting him out to dinner? He decided it must be a wrong number and set the phone back on the arm of the sofa, where it promptly chirped again..

CHINESE.  THE ONE 3.2 BLOCKS NORTH OF YOU.  THE BOTTOM THIRD OF THE DOOR HANDLE INDICATES IT IS ACCEPTABLE.

 _What the fucking hell..._ The words rang too chillingly familiar in his mind. Three years since Sherlock’s death, and John fought the ghost of that voice every day. And screamed against it more nights than he’d care to count. He opened a reply window.

_WHO IS THIS?_

REALLY, JOHN.  YOU’VE BECOME IMPOSSIBLY SLOW.  HAVE YOU BEEN STANDING NEAR ANDERSON?  STOP BEING DULL.  I’LL ORDER FOR YOU.  DON’T DAWDLE.

The phone skidded off the sofa as John got to his feet, backing away, staring at the tiny letters he couldn’t actually read from this distance now. The words, the cadence, the bored tone of the message...someone was screwing with him big time and John didn’t like the way his lungs seized up and his eyes burned. How many times had he wished for a conversation like this again; prayed to be called an idiot, to be berated for his tiny mind, to be ordered around in that insufferable tone? The urge to get his sidearm and shoot the mobile made his fingers spasm.

The seconds measured out and the phone buzzed again.

STOP IT.  HURRY OR YOUR FOOD WILL ARRIVE BEFORE YOU DO.  YOUR TEA WILL BE COLD.

JOHN.

I WON’T EAT IF YOU AREN’T HERE.

The creeped-out feeling vanished in a blaze of rage. John snatched up the phone and typed.

_YOU STOP IT. SHERLOCK HOLMES HAS BEEN DEAD FOR THREE FUCKING YEARS. I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE OR WHAT SORT OF SICK GAME YOU’RE PLAYING, BUT LEAVE ME ALONE!!!_

Maybe that would get the bloody fucker to back off.  Good thing phones didn’t reveal where a piece of garbage like that lurked, or John would go find them and beat the living hell out of them.  He drew a deep breath, trying to expel the rage. _How fucking DARE they!_  Christ, couldn’t they let Sherlock rest in peace even after all this time?  Arse-holes.  The whole lot of them.  The papers bringing it up on the anniversary of his suicide, the pricks like this one tonight... yeah, damn them all.

 _No, no, no..._ The intermittent tremor in his left hand had come back about six months after Sherlock’s death and right now he looked like he was in the late stages of Parkinson’s disease. John pulled a glass out of the cupboard and reached for the bottle of Chieftains he kept behind the tea tin. Getting the cap off seemed to take forever. He poured a double shot into the glass, added half again, then knocked it all back in one swallow. In a minute he’d stop shaking and he’d be able to breathe again.

He stood for awhile, just reacquainting himself with the process of pulling oxygen into his lungs.  Right.  Good.  He’d reached a level of almost human, only to have the doorbell shatter it.

“Bloody hell.”  Now his heart was jumping again.

He could ignore it. If it was Lestrade, the detective-inspector would call in a minute to make sure John was all right. The sick freak sending the texts had John’s mobile number; it was plausible the twat could have found the flat address as well. John glanced toward the desk drawer where he kept his Browning.

Yeah, it would be great if it was the prick.  A good scare would be just the thing. And if by chance it was Lestrade, the detective-inspector would forgive him once John explained about the stalker texts.

The doorbell trilled again. John pulled the always-loaded pistol from the drawer, making sure the safety was on. He might _want_ to shoot the fucker, but jail time wasn’t on John’s agenda at all. He moved toward the door, realising he’d unconsciously gone up onto the balls of his feet as if sneaking up on an enemy.

 _Height of control, clear thinking, that’s it._  John grasped the knob and jerked the door open, gun at the ready.  And found two large white bags smelling of Pork Lo Mein and Garlic Shrimp thrust up against the muzzle.

“Take this.  I need to answer a text.”  The deep tones were unmistakable.  And impossible.

John’s fingers froze around the pistol. _Not possible. No. I’m finally losing my mind._ Every synapse in his brain had misfired simultaneously; he couldn’t have reached for the bags if he’d wanted to.

“John!  Bags.  Lestrade’s being even more idiotic than usual.  Good God, I go away for a bit and he loses the small amount of intelligence he’d gained through our association.”  The deep tones resonated in John’s skull.  “He keeps insisting I can’t be me.  John.  John!”

John’s shoulder gave out and he felt the gun slip from his fingers onto the small table where he kept his wallet and keys without his brain actually registering the movement. The paper felt warm and smooth, the weight of the bags a sort of muzzy comfort without any lucid thought. So this was what insanity felt like. Okay. Okay. He turned and moved toward the kitchen, still little more than a puppet controlled by that ghost voice. Maybe Mycroft had gotten tired of being ignored and whipped up some hallucinogenic. John decided he’d just stay at the worktop and rest his head in his hands awhile, just relax into the psychosis and find a little peace. Whoever was at the door, if there really was someone there, would just have to wait.

Familiar footsteps sounded on the floorboards.  An exasperated huff echoing loudly in the room before the sound of paper rustling made John flinch.  “Since you wouldn’t join me, I had them pack the food as takeaway.”  The rustling grew.  “Eating here might be better.  Fewer interruptions, barring Lestrade’s stupidity.  Hand down a couple of plates.”

“Sherlock’s dead.” Obvious, but what the hell. John kept the heels of his hands pressed tight over his eyes. At least he managed the words without his voice breaking...much. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“John.  I’m not dead.  I’m standing here in front of you.  I brought home Chinese.”

Damn his heart for hoping. Hadn’t he stood at Sherlock’s grave begging for one more miracle? John brought his hands down to the cool tile of the worktop, trying to clench the tremors away, purposely not looking at the apparition standing in his kitchen until he had a firm grip on his emotions. Then he straightened and turned toward that rich voice which _could not_ be real.

Opalescent eyes half-smiled at him.  “As you see.  Would you have dinner with me, John?  I’ve wanted to sit across a table from you for such a long time now.”

“S-Sherlock.” Not possible. The face, the form, the bloody sodding Coat. Even the cologne. John dared to reach out, fully expecting his hand to pass right through. When it didn’t, when he encountered a solid, sinewy arm and watched that Cupid’s-bow mouth curve in a slight smile, his lungs contracted and he had to suck in a breath before he passed out. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.  It’s me.”  The smile grew, lighting Sherlock’s eyes, rare crinkles at their corners appearing.  “I have to admit I have missed you more than I thought possible.”

“Missed me.” John felt, literally felt, the synapses snap back into place. “You missed me.” One message ripped through his brain, bright as that damn Japanese sword Sherlock had once displayed in their flat. _Clench fist, tighten grip, drop shoulder and swing hard._ His body obeyed in a flash of rage and a sharp pain as his knuckles hit the solidity of the ghost’s jaw. “You right _bastard_!!”

Sherlock dropped to the floor, a trickle of scarlet already showing at the corner of his mouth, eyes wide.  That red splash froze John’s heart.  Red on alabaster skin, eyes wide and unblinking, blood soaking dark curls—breathing became an issue and the world went slightly black.

“John!”  Sherlock’s voice sounded from a distance as strong hands guided John into a chair.  “Gently, John.  What is it?  Tell me.”

“T-tell... _tell you_? You fucking...” John fought for something less resembling hyperventilation. “I watched...I watched you die. Watched you dive off a fucking building...and... God...” His stomach muscles spasmed and he doubled over against a warm shoulder. “Wanted...to die with you...”

“ _No!_ ”  Sherlock’s fingers bit into John’s arms.  “Never say that.  Never think it.  I forbid it!  You have to live.  Regardless of anything else, you must survive.  That’s what all this has been about.”  The hard grasp loosened a bit, one eventually dropping and then going about John’s shoulders.  “I will not apologize for keeping you alive.  It would not matter, even if I really had died.”

“No sort of a life without you.” It slipped out into the warm weave of Sherlock’s coat, soft and too damn filled with tears. If John could pull up any sort of emotion other than dead shock at the moment, he might have been embarrassed by it. In fact, now that he thought about it... He sucked in another breath and set to work on properly screwing the lid on those emotions as he straightened, averting his gaze. “Suppose you want tea, then.”

“It would go well with the shrimp.”  Sherlock’s arm dropped away, but his hand remained on John’s arm, warmth seeping through the fabric of John’s shirt.  “I haven’t had a decent cup since I left home.”

“Mm.” John got up, brushing away that touch, quelling both the soldier’s urge to swing again and the far more uncomfortable urge to drown himself in that damn coat and never come up for air again. “Ice pack’s in the freezer, for your lip.”

“What?  Oh.  Right.”  Sherlock blinked a couple of times and managed to find the first-aid gel-pack.  The smile reappeared.  “I think you managed to avoid my teeth and my nose.”

“Good.” _Fine. All fine. Just fine. Good._ So why did he feel the need to be completely numb again?

 


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s been nothing on your blog for two years, seven months, a week and three days, John. Why? Surely there must have been something of note in your life.”

John poked at the few remaining shrimp on his plate. “Not really. Job, home, pint with Lestrade now and again.” He hadn’t looked directly at Sherlock since he’d gone to make the tea. It hurt to look at Sherlock. As much as it had hurt to look at the empty chair by the fire at Baker Street.

“Again, why?  You are a capable human being.  More so than most, in fact.  It is not rational your life has...stopped simply because one person died.”  The clink of Sherlock’s fork hitting the plate sounded too loud.

 _My life stopped the day I took a damn bullet in the shoulder. It started again when I met you. And it nearly disintegrated the day you died._  Words John couldn’t say. Always the problem. Dr. Sofi continually told him he needed to say things out loud, deal with them, get them out of his gut so he could sleep and heal and move on. But the words never got past his throat. As if saying them would crack him open once and for all. He shrugged and picked up his tea. “Just didn’t seem overly interesting for a blog, that’s all.”

“You’re a horrible liar and always have been so.”  Sherlock pushed his food away, but reached for his tea.  Still, half the plate was empty.  He raised an eyebrow at John.  “Yes, I do eat a bit more.  I find this new body of mine requires more sustenance.  It’s annoying.”  He flexed an arm much greater in circumference than it had been before.  “A consequence of my lifestyle for the past three years.  Far more physical.”

John flicked a glance over the figure across from him, still avoiding Sherlock’s direct gaze. Wow. He hadn’t noticed. The slim, almost gawky silhouette he was used to had filled out at least two sizes. And not soft fill, either. The tight cords of muscle in Sherlock’s forearms proved that. A million questions queued up in John’s head, but he wasn’t ready to let those loose yet. “Suppose it makes sense.” He let his gaze wander over to the bag Sherlock had apparently brought in while John was trying to maintain his sanity. “Travelling light, I take it.”

“Very.”  Sherlock gestured to the relatively small duffle by the door.  “My current worldly possessions.  I’ve become accustomed to getting by with very little: a smartphone, a laptop—though I can use a public one if it comes to that—, an mp3 player, Jim,  my various identifications, some weapons.  A change of clothes and toiletries are nice, but not necessary.”  He shrugged.  “I can do with just Jim and the IDs.  I can get the rest whenever I land on my feet.”

“Jim?” John felt a little nerve in his temple grind to a screeching halt, the typical reaction to that name ever since that damn swimming pool. “Who the hell is Jim?”

Sherlock stood and went to dig through the duffle, pulling out a too-familiar pale white globe.  He returned and set the skull beside his plate.  Thick bands of silver bound parts of the cranium together and held the mandible in place.  Intricate carvings covered the thing, some of them looking not quite done.  “Jim.”

John stared for a moment. “Okay.” He supposed it made sense in a totally Sherlock sort of way that there would be a skull. _But why on earth would Sherlock name it after...Him?_ John’s curiosity got the better of him. “Friend?”

“Oh, no!  We were never friends, John.  You know that.  But we were close to intellectual equals.  He did nearly win, after all.  Nearly.  He certainly pushed me into a very tight corner and forced me to do something I did not want to do.”  Sherlock turned pensive for a few seconds.  “In any case, I needed someone to talk to and the least he could do is shut it and listen.  I consider it proper recompense.”

The relevant data in those statements took a minute to work through John’s mind, but when they did he nearly dropped his teacup. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that’s _actually_ Jim Moriarty’s skull?”

Long, pale fingers petted the macabre thing.  “Oh yes.  I can’t imagine anything else would do.  I couldn’t take my old one.  Too many questions if it went missing.  I desperately needed something with which to speak.  I was going mad.  Jim was the obvious choice.”  Sherlock made it sound rational.

 _You could have talked to me. You could have told me. We could have vanished together._ But no, obviously. Sherlock had shut him out from almost the moment... _God, who am I kidding? He’s always shut me out. The sodding skull was more portable._ John swallowed the ache and got up to make another cuppa. “Must have been a right mess getting it through airport security.”

“I have papers.  I am an artist most of the time and Jim is my main work.”  Sherlock continued to pet the former consulting criminal.  “I have a box for him in there somewhere.”

“Of course.” The sheer lunacy of the whole situation stretched the limits of John’s temper and his nerves. His fingers nearly crushed the tea tin, though he stopped when he felt the dent forming. The beginnings of a borderline-hysterical laugh tickled the depths of his lungs. “You carted _Moriarty’s_ skull around the world to talk to?  My God.  Sherlock.  That is just...unbelievable.”

“He donated his body to science, then made the most interesting bit unusable by putting a bullet through it.  Someone might as well get some use from his mangled head.”  Sherlock sipped his tea.  “Thoughtless, self-centred, egomaniac.”  Sherlock’s eyes sparked.  “Yes, I’m speaking of you, you utterly useless psychotic.”  He grinned.  “It’s quite liberating.  You’re welcome to speak with him yourself.”

“No.” John stared at the kettle, watching the first tiny bubbles form along the bottom edge of the glass receptacle. The only contact he’d have with that prick’s skull would be to take a hammer to it until nothing was left but a pile of dust. _I should have hunted him down and shot him after the pool. Waited for him to come out of the courthouse and taken a scalpel to his jugular in an alley somewhere between there and Baker Street. Pounded him into a bloody pulp at that journo’s flat._ Sometimes he hated where his thoughts took him; back into the abyss of fight-or-flight he’d honed as a soldier, even a military doctor. A man had to stay alive in order to save lives. And John was very, very good at staying alive.

“Stop.  It was not your fault.  If anyone is to blame, it is me.  I underestimated his threat.  I underestimated _him_.  If it’s any consolation, I have paid for that error.  Unfortunately, so have all those who believed in and cared for me.”  Sherlock settled his clasped hands on the table before him.  “I could find no way around that, though I did try.”

It shouldn’t be so damn comforting that Sherlock knew, however he knew, exactly the train of John’s thoughts. The bubbles in the kettle expanded and rose, exploded and became part of the next wave. Much like the one most painful aspect of this whole mess John could feel tumbling its way up through his every effort to contain it. “Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.” Oh, shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out.

“I often fear you are correct.”  Sherlock set his cup on the table.  “But there you have it.  My inadequacies led to my own downfall.  And Jim’s, I suppose.  Though in the end only his suicide was real.”  He drew a sharp breath and gathered up the abominable skull.  “Thank you for sharing dinner with me.  I see Jim and I have worn our welcome thin.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I trusted you!” The dam broke, the rage and the ache spilled over. “From pretty much the moment we met. I didn't trust anyone when I got home, and suddenly I find the rudest, most mental person on the planet is the one person I trust. Your brother knew that straightaway.” John flipped the kettle off with a slap. He didn’t want tea. He wanted another whisky.  “But you didn’t trust me with the truth of what was going on. And then you toss yourself off a fucking building and vanish for three years, letting me think you’re dead, leaving me with nothing but—” Damn it.  His voice caught and he had to fight for what little control he had left.

“John.  I had no choice.  There was no other option.  Believe me; I would have taken any other path had there been one.”  Sherlock tucked Moriarty’s skull back in the duffle.  “I would have given anything to have kept my life as it was.”

Control be damned. Sherlock probably already knew just how close to the edge John was teetering. John swung around and faced his former flatmate directly, shaking hands and all. “What the hell happened on that rooftop, Sherlock? You lied through your teeth to me, that entire bloody ‘suicide note’ tosh. You keep saying you had no choice. So tell me what Moriarty said or did that left you with no choice, that you couldn’t share with me, that we couldn’t have beat together.” He’d plead if he had to. “Just tell me why you couldn’t talk to me.”

“John.”  Soft, but commanding.  Not apologetic.  “Had I a choice, I would have told you.  But had I told you, you would have died.  Right then, that instant.”  He straightened and turned to face John.  “Not an acceptable outcome.  I knew you _did_ trust me.  With your life.  Are you telling me now I was wrong?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” _How the hell do I argue with logic like that?_  He couldn't, that was the problem. But it would help if he at least understood. “Maybe not. I don't know. Just tell me what Moriarty was holding over you.”

“I just did, John.  Don’t. Be. Slow.  Your life.  He was holding your life.”  Sherlock's smile wasn't, not really.  “Shall we just say I would far rather have had Jim's skull to speak with than yours.”  Gallows humour should have suited him better than it did.  “It really wasn’t an bargain I could negotiate.”

“My life. How?” John was getting really tired of half-answers. “I went from your side to Baker Street—” _God, I was so stupid._ “—and directly back to, well, almost your side. So how did he have my life in his grip?” He rounded the worktop and got hold of Sherlock’s arm, looking up into that unearthly gaze and seeing for the first time his friend’s eyes were actually a light turquoise swirled with green. “Please. Just tell me.”

“Yes.  I fear I arranged that.  I knew I would meet Moriarty sometime that day and it would be best to do it alone.  That’s why I was unconcerned about Mrs. Hudson—I knew she was fine.”  Sherlock’s arm jerked under John’s hand, an unconscious movement of muscles under stress.  “I arranged to meet him on the roof, my turf if you will.  I’d already anticipated his plan for me and made my counter moves.  And that is where I underestimated him. At our meeting he revealed he had three snipers utterly loyal to him waiting for me to follow his orders.  Those orders were that I jump to my death.  If I did not do so, the snipers would shoot you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.  I deduced he had a recall order, but he killed himself so I could neither trick nor force him to use it.”  The jerks in Sherlock’s arm had become a tremble.  “So you see, it was a very tight corner indeed.”

“My God...” John’s rage took a turn directly at Moriarty, which of course was useless because the psycho was dead. Really dead. He’d have to find a way to let it go. Right now the full revelation of what had happened took over. What Sherlock had actually done. “You couldn’t tell me on the phone. Because he was listening? Or was he already dead?”

“He was dead, but his minions weren’t.  As I said, utterly loyal to him.  I could not take the risk, John.  I didn’t dare.  So I fell.”  John had never seen such sadness on Sherlock’s face.  “It seemed a fair trade.  My life for three others.”

 _“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”_ Maybe not. But anyone could have a heroic moment in their lives, and if that last moment on the rooftop wasn’t one John wasn’t sure what would be. The questions were still queued up, but it would wait a bit. John glanced down at the duffel again. “You got a place to stay tonight? I’m guessing you haven’t showed up at Baker Street. Mrs. H. would have called me by now.”

“I’ve become accustomed to sleeping raw.  A cheap hotel is a luxury for me these days.”  Sherlock tucked his hands behind him.  “I’ve not yet presented myself to Mrs. Hudson, though I must do so soon.  The homeless shelters and missions will have closed their doors, but it’s a relatively dry night with little wind.  It won’t be uncomfortable in a doorway or behind a skip.”

 _Finally. I’ve wanted to do this for years._ John pulled up his best you’re-an-idiot expression and aimed it directly at Sherlock. “Don’t be stupid. I’m offering you the actual _bed_ in the other room. I’ll kip on the sofa.”

There.  Yeah, that blink of confusion was worth it.  “Thank you.”  Sherlock surprised was really a sight to behold.  “I’ll take the couch.  You’ve been having some issues with your back because of the limp.  The strain from walking in an unnatural fashion.”

“How...oh.” Well, yeah, the cane perched by the bedroom door would be a giveaway. “Your choice. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept out here. I, uh...” No, not going there. Details best left to vague deductions. “I suppose even the skull can stick around for awhile.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

_“Take my hand!”_

_“Another subtle way of smearing my name, now I'm friends with all those criminals...”_

_“Something I have to do. On my own.”_

_“She’s dying, you...machine!”_

_“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”_

_“No, friends protect people.”_

John turned against the sheets, trapped in the dream again.

_“An apology... I’m a fake...This phone call, it’s my note... Goodbye, John.”_

_“SHERLOCK!!!”_

“John.”  Strong hands gripped John’s shoulders.  “John, wake up.  It’s all right.  I’m here.”  Lean fingers bit in.  “John!”

John’s eyes shot open to bright moonlight and the warmth of his flat, his brain clawing its way back from greying clouds and snowflakes against the gritty marble of St Bart’s and a dark figure plunging seventy feet to unforgiving pavement. His heart hammered against his ribs and he felt the shallow gallop of oxygen in his lungs. The grip on his shoulders felt too familiar and he tried to twist out of it. “No...no, please let me through, he’s my friend, he’s—”

“John.  I’m all right.  I’m here.”  Bright eyes stared into his, not empty and flat but alive.  “It was a nightmare.  Everything’s fine.”

 _Fine? It’s all fine. It’s—_ Oxygen registered at last. John pulled in several deep breaths, fighting the last of the panic, until he felt less like the favourite at Epsom Downs and slightly more like a human being. Only then did he realize his hands cradled Sherlock’s face, thumbs tracing the lines of those high cheekbones, and tears were running down his own face. He drew back and quickly scrubbed his eyes with his T-shirt. “Sherlock. Sorry, I— Sorry.”

“As I said, it’s fine, John.”  Sherlock remained sitting on the edge of John’s bed.  “I anticipated your sleep would be disturbed tonight and so remained awake.  I was reading.”

John nodded, trying to shake off the dream, trying to not throw his arms around Sherlock and make a complete arse of himself. Damn his hands for shaking. “N-not conversing with...Jim?”

“I’d hoped you’d sleep for a few hours before you were disturbed.”  Sherlock tilted his head.  “Besides, Jim is really only decent for case work and venting frustrations.  He’s rubbish when I’m in a good mood.”

“It's still dead weird, you having his skull.” The weirdness of it cleared the last of the dream-fog and John sighed. “Tea? I doubt I’m going to sleep again right away.”

“Tea would be good.”  Sherlock stood and extended his hand to John.  “I don’t need to sleep tonight.  Not really.  I slept night before last.”

The lounge seemed far less sterile with Sherlock’s few possessions tumbling out of the duffel and colouring the beige carpet in front of the brown sofa, brown chair and slightly-different-shade-of-brown coffee table. John rubbed at his eyes again and went to the kitchen area to set the kettle boiling. He motioned Sherlock to one of the barstools tucked under the worktop. “Question for you. Well, I’ve actually got about a million, but just one for the moment. Does Mycroft know you’re alive? Has he known all this time?”

“Not all of it, no.  Not until he began to see a pattern to the elimination of certain criminal elements.  He realized someone other than he was also destroying Moriarty’s organization, and doing a far better job of it.  Of course, with his ego, he reasoned the only person capable of such a feat would be me.  Ergo, I must not be dead.”  The smirk appeared.  “He really was most annoyed.”

John let that bit of data settle over him while the kettle heated and he put together two teacups and a plate of biscuits. “So you really did this all on your own. That’s frankly amazing, even for you. I mean...wait.” A bit of the dream/memory filtered back to him. “Oh my God. Molly.” He turned and stared at Sherlock. “Molly knew. She had to have known. That’s how...my God. And she never said a word.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Molly has been exceptional.  She was the one friend Moriarty discounted.  It could very well have been his greatest error.  The chances of my surviving would have been greatly reduced without Molly.”  Something softened in Sherlock’s expression.  “She is the one person who has ever truly seen me, John.  It’s really quite astonishing.  Molly Hooper, of all people, actually observes!”

Okay, that stung a little. John tried to chalk it up to simply his post-nightmare state of mind. He poured boiling water into the cups and popped the tea bags in. Sherlock stayed quiet while the tea steeped and John stared at the cups. Probably thinking, maybe deducing what John’s thoughts were. That idea set a little cringe slithering up John’s spine.

He finished the tea and set the tray on the worktop, pulling the other barstool around so they sat facing each other. Time for another subject change to something benign. “So...what else have you been doing for the past three years, besides jailing a few crooks? No tan, I assume you weren't catching the rays in Tahiti.”

Was that a faint flush creeping up Sherlock's throat as his long fingers toyed with his teacup?  He refused to meet John's gaze.  “I was...eliminating every threat to you.”  He wound the string from the teabag about his finger.

“What?” Okay, so much for a comfortable subject. The strange urge to settle his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders tickled his nerve endings again. He reached for a biscuit instead. “Oh, you mean you took down _all_ of Moriarty's organization? Eliminated the remaining threat to society in general.” The flinch of those broader shoulders than he remembered tugged at his gut. Truth, then. “The assassins. If we showed any sign we knew you were alive...” It made sense now. It didn’t make John feel any _better_ about the whole thing, but... “By yourself? That's...impressive.”

The flush on Sherlock's snowy skin deepened.  “Necessary.  If I did not, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you would remain in mortal danger.  Moriarty's web had to be destroyed.  The outer rings could be jailed, but the inner ones loyal to him...”  Sherlock pressed his lips tight, quite rosy by now.

“You did what needed doing.” John found he didn't want to know the details. He'd seen firsthand what Sherlock was capable of where Mrs. Hudson was involved.

John received a sharp, miniscule incline of Sherlock's head in reply.  “It took far longer than I anticipated.  I'd hoped to be home long ago.  Moriarty's organization was worldwide, so I've travelled extensively.  I actually was in Tahiti, briefly, tracking a slavery ring.  I didn't find it enjoyable.”  His voice drifted away.  “I sank a yacht with all on board.  There was no other choice.”

 _My God._  John wasn't sure how to feel about that. Part of him wanted to shake Sherlock, scream how wrong it was and how there was always a choice other than taking innocent lives, but it rang a little...hypocritical in his mind. After all, a soldier didn't often have clear choices in combat. Lots of gray area. And it wasn't as if John himself hadn't taken lives in direct defence of his best friend. It just sat uncomfortably in his gut. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have to make those choices, walk that line. That’s what John was supposed to do.

Sherlock's gaze flicked over him for an instant, deducing, inducing, reading.  At light-speed.  Dear God, living alone, hunting—and probably hunted himself—must have honed that razor mind to an unimaginable sharpness.  “They were all involved in the slavery or profiting from it.  They knew where the money came from at least.  None of them were clean.  It's just that some were minor players, taking easy money to fetch drinks and clean a boat. Still, they knew what their bosses did.”

John nodded. “Sorry.”

One shoulder twitched in a possible shrug.  “You are not...I have not been...”  Sherlock drew a long breath.  “Three years is a long time.”

“Yeah.” This really wasn't going well. John tried to come up with something, anything, to say without sounding either judgmental or like a complete sop. “Long time to be alone.” _Shit. Not that._

That too-sharp gaze remained.  “Too long.  For us both.”  Then the most amazing thing John had seen happened.  Sherlock smiled.  “It is so very good to be home, John.  I suspected it would be, but I had no idea.  Even with your anger, it is so good just to be here.”

Try as he might, John felt his spine tighten and his face go taut with the effort to not lose hold of the rapidly fraying net over his emotions. _One more miracle, for me, Sherlock: Don't. Be. Dead._  And sure enough...miracle granted. The urge to throw any remaining dignity to the wind and wrap his arms around his friend nearly overwhelmed him, but John managed to quell it enough to speak, though his voice felt suddenly rough and damnably wet. “Yeah. Yeah, it's good.” God, he needed to get out of this conversation and back to the bedroom before he made a complete fool of himself.

“John?  Since it’s good...”  Sherlock gestured, sweeping the two of them up together.  “Would you consider doing as I’ve done as well?  Coming home?  To 221B, I mean.  It's far superior to here and the location is closer to your work.  It would in all ways be an improvement.”

 _Oh, God, yes!_ His head and his heart collided in a great big heavy knot just under his sternum. “Uh...” Sod it all, leave it to Sherlock to just show up out of the blue and expect everything to go right back to normal. If John was _lucky_ , this little adjustment would only require three months of therapy to keep him from gluing himself to Sherlock’s side every waking moment. He forced the tremor in his hands to stop. “Maybe not right now. I just...”

“I see.”  Sherlock stared for several ticks of the clock, face immobile, eyes darting over John, reading God knew what from the way his hair fell over his left ear or some such.  Eventually, he drew in a sharp breath, as though he’d forgotten to do something as dull as use his lungs.  “Well, France is very anxious for me to return to work for them.  The Americans have made an offer as well.”  Sherlock folded his hands  in his lap away from John’s sight.  “I've no doubt I can find something interesting somewhere to keep me occupied.  The world’s a large place.”

“What?” John knew this twinge in his gut all too well. Manipulation. A little of the anger started to simmer again. “You just got back. You’ve been here what, six hours? You just said you liked being home.” He pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the sudden moisture welling in the corners of his eyes. _Damn it all._ “Why would you leave again?”

“John, don't be slow.  Apply my methods.  What would you equate as home to me? Remove my reason for remaining happily in London and Montpellier or Quantico suits me just as well.”  Cool opal eyes demanded John cease being dull and ordinary.  He should be insulted, but all he could think was how much he'd missed that.

Unfortunately, it just severed the last thread of control. “So you're going to run off to wherever just because I'm not ready to pick things up like three years of absolute hell for me never happened. Of course you are.” John pushed back from the worktop and stood, turning away, damning the tears he couldn't shove back into their ducts. Fine. He'd just make sure they weren't seen. His voice shook with the effort to not shout. “Look, maybe you can just delete them in a heartbeat, but I can't. Do you have any idea what it was like, watching the only real friend I had in the world dive off a fucking building? To realise I was right back where I started before I met you? Do you have any concept of the nights I buried myself in a whiskey bottle to drown the nightmares? The stilted conversations I endured with Lestrade, with Mrs. Hudson, with Molly—God! And she knew all this time!—, trying to convince them I was fine, I was adjusting, I wasn't numb and the world wasn't becoming transparent around me. Quelling the urge to take a shot at every big black car your brother sent round. I—” His voice failed and he clenched his fists against the cool porcelain of the sink.

“John.  I know.”  Sherlock didn't move, didn't shout.  He didn’t look up from his clasped hands.  “I...kept an eye on you as best I could.  Everything you told Molly was conveyed to me, so I would know.  My homeless network has had you under surveillance.  Whether I was in Kiev or Cambodia, I knew.  I am excruciatingly aware of the pain I have caused you.  I have not deleted any of it, nor will I, tempting as it is to do so.  Just as I have not resorted to cocaine or heroin to ease the knowledge.”

“I thought I'd failed you.” Hell, John’s voice was awash with tears anyway, might as well get all the humiliating emotion out at once and be done with it. “Failed you by not convincing you I believed you over Moriarty, by letting that damn phone call about Mrs. Hudson fool me, by not...being enough to keep you from jumping.” God, it hurt to say it, hurt more to turn and reveal his weakness, his sentiment. He watched a tear drop onto the dark laminate. “Failed you by not being enough of a friend.”

Sherlock’s head popped up, eyes wide.  “No, John.  Not at all.  Quite the reverse in fact.  You have always been an exemplary friend.  It is I who failed you by allowing Moriarty to back me into that oh-so-tight corner I had no choice but to take drastic action.”  Sherlock dropped his gaze again.  “I understand why you don't wish to return to our former friendship.  I had simply hoped you might overlook my shortcomings.  Not surprising.  I've never been very good at friendship and caring and relationships.  It’s never been my area.”

Deep breath. As much for calm as to dissipate the wash of guilt. John leaned his arms on the worktop, staring at the surface, suddenly very weary and not much caring if a few more tears got away. “Sherlock, I never said anything about not being friends again. I didn’t throw you out tonight without a listen, and I only punched you once.”

The little huff he got at that gave John enough of an encouragement to keep going. “And I didn’t say a flat-out ‘no’ to being flatmates again. I said ‘not right this second.’ I spent the last three years with a gaping chasm in my soul because I thought you were dead. I’m just asking for a little time to regroup so I don’t—” _Shit. He’s going to give me that look, the village idiot get-over-it-already look that’ll make me want to punch him again or go hide in Edinburgh for a week._ John squared his shoulders and braced himself for just that happening. “So I don’t break down every sodding time I see you or hear that violin or find a coagulating spleen in the fridge. I just need a little time to...realise I'm not broken anymore.”

Yes, there was the look.  “And you will achieve this by remaining in an environment which reminds you of my absence and will reinforce the indications that you are, in fact, broken?  That is not logical.”  Sherlock stood and paced to the window, staring off into the moonlight.  “I, on the other hand, am well aware I require certain things to return to my former functionality.  I require the Work, 221B, and you with me again.  If I do not have these, I would be just as well off starting over somewhere else, because London will be abhorrent.  The memories I’d constantly encounter would be a distraction.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a couple of weeks of having the flat to yourself to random bouts of being alternately hugged and swatted upside the head?” The humour felt weak and probably sounded weaker.  John gave up on it and opted for another dose of truth. “Look, I’m still trying to convince myself you’re actually here and not another hallucination.  I don’t mind going out on a case with you right now. I just...need to get past the sentiment, that’s all.”

“Why?”  Sherlock turned, outlined by the moon-washed window.  The light barely reached him there, the pale glow from outside stronger than the lamp within.

“Well, I hardly think you’re going to want to be messing around with a flatmate who’s a halfway emotional wreck. It’s...distracting? Dull? Isn’t that what you always say?” John paused, trying to figure out what he was actually trying to say. Was it about Sherlock? Something Dr. Sofi had said clear back when the grief still burned bright and sharp in his chest... _“You don’t have to be the soldier all the time, John. It’s okay to be a little unpolished, a little out of control. It’s what makes us human.”_

John pursed his lips and lifted his shoulders at the look Sherlock was giving him, something between exasperation and...something. “I don’t want to come home if I’m not...steady.”

“I could help with that.  I have done before.”  Sherlock remained by the window, still for a change.  Or was it?  Perhaps he’d learned stillness while he was away.  “I can assure you I’m not an hallucination when needed, wake you from nightmares, allow you to yell at me—whatever is necessary.  Sitting alone in this rather cramped flat of yours will require far more effort to achieve the same goals.”  He turned back to the moonlight.  “I am so very tired, John.”

Dangerous. So dangerous. To allow himself to believe again, to trust again, to reach out and let just one person back into his soul. The one person who had never knocked, just blew in like a hurricane and set John’s entire life back on kilter. The one person who mattered.

_When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._

_I said dangerous, and here you are._

John walked over to the window, leaning against the frame as he watched the city glow. “Don’t do this to me again, okay? I really don’t think I could take it. I’d...” Sentiment be damned. Sherlock didn’t seem to be having a problem with it at the moment. And John didn’t ever want to have to say what he truly wanted to over a gravestone again. “I’d rather walk across the whole bloody planet with you, hunted or hunting, than have to try to exist with you gone.”

“Then don’t.  Come home, so I can come home.  I truly am so very tired, John.  I don’t remember what it feels like to rest.  And I can’t do that until we’re home.”  The detective really did sound appallingly weary.  A faint smile appeared.  “Besides, we’ve always been better together.”

“Yeah.” The world settled back into place, at least enough for now. John pulled up his best doctor frown and gave his friend a once-over. “Eight hours sleep. No less. I know neither of us are going to sleep tonight, but when we get home tomorrow, you can unpack or buy a dressing gown and pyjamas. Nothing else until you’ve had eight hours sleep.”

“I see Captain Watson still enjoys pulling rank a bit.”  Sherlock’s fleeting smile outshone the moon.  “Very well.  Since you insist.”

“Good. You said yourself you were tired, so rest is the order of the day.” John felt the last word catch and tried to get his emotions under control again. Or at least look like he had. “Oh. Couple of things you might want back now. Most of your stuff is in storage. Mrs. H. left it to me and I couldn’t bear to even look at it, so I just stuck it all in there and sent the bill to Mycroft.”  He moved to a wooden chest near the window and opened it. “Catch.” He tossed a slightly misshapen sphere at Sherlock.

“Ah.”  Sherlock ran his hand over the smooth cranium.  “I missed you as well, old chap.”  A faint twinkle lurked in his eyes as he looked at John.  “He wasn’t a great conversationalist, but he had superior listening skills.  Jim really couldn’t compare.  I often told him so.”

“And you wonder why I was a little insulted I was filling in?” God, it felt good to banter again. Something almost cold and dead inside John started to warm and glow. He lifted the other item with far more care, keeping his back turned slightly while he straightened. Then he turned and watched Sherlock’s eyes widen. “I’m expecting you missed this more than the skull.”

“Far more.”  He took the Stradivarius from John reverently.  “Though I had Jim to talk with, you’re far superior to both the skulls, combined.”  Sherlock ran his hand over the violin.  The glittering smile reappeared.  “You and this are unmatched.”

John wasn’t quite sure what to do with that bit of blatant praise. Part of him wanted to brush it aside as just a polite comment, and part of him knew Sherlock didn’t make those sorts of comments unless he meant them. So he focused on something comfortable.  “I knew it’d get ruined, sitting in a storage locker. I couldn’t...I don’t even know why, I just couldn’t make myself not care what happened to it.” He fingered the very edge of the case, not touching the violin itself. “But I haven’t looked at it since the last day I was at Baker Street. It’s been here. Waiting, I guess. Waiting for a miracle.”

“You have it now.”  Sherlock closed the case, securing the instrument.  He ran his hand over the graceful shape of the box, long curls falling over his face.  “Thank you, John.  For caring for it.  For waiting.”

John nodded, feeling the knot in his throat starting again. He pushed it away with a square of his shoulders and held out his hand. “Remind me you’re not a hallucination?”

A lean pale hand closed around John’s, the fingers warm and solid.  “I’m real.”  Sherlock squeezed so tightly John could feel his own pulse. “No delusion.  Very real.”

“God...” It slipped out on a very shaky inhale, so hopefully Sherlock hadn’t heard it. John fought every impulse to disintegrate into a blubbering mess against that corduroy jacket. Sherlock might chalk up a few seconds of it to sentiment, but John was rather afraid if he started he wouldn’t stop.

The hold on John’s hand became painfully tight.  “Allow me to prove I will not leave you again.  Let me prove I’m real whenever you need me to do so.  Come home.”  The wind gusted against the window, rattling it a bit.  Silver moonlight kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and the bend of his jaw.  “This is not where you belong.”

“No, it’s not. I belong with you.” It came out rushed and half-strangled. _Oh, sod it_. Control broke and he hid his tears against the warm dark nap of his friend’s lapel. “Sherlock...” At least he wasn’t screaming it, for the first time in three years.

“I am here, John.”  What sounded remarkably like a relieved sigh escaped the detective.  And he didn’t let go of John’s hand.  “It’s all right.  Everything is finally all right.”

*****

FINIS

 

Thanks for reading!


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